Who was the murdered man? What had he wanted in her home? Who had killed him? Those questions plagued her, but she would face them without fear. She was strong, she was capable; that was her mantra, and she repeated it as she surveyed the porch. It stretched the width of the house, with a wicker sofa and chairs beyond the Hoosier cabinet on the one side, and tables with wintered-over plants at the other end; scarlet geraniums thrived through the winter in the cool shelter of the summer porch.
She moved the boxes aside and examined the Hoosier cabinet. Could there be something inside of it that the dead guy had been looking for? The detective had said there were fingerprints on the Hoosier, but then there were fingerprints on everything, he admitted. She tugged on the tambour rolltop door, but it still would not budge. There was no way there could be something hidden in there that the thief would have wanted. That tambour had not been opened for many a year, so she didn’t even know yet if the cabinet had its original sets of glass jars and rolling pin.
She opened the cupboards again, and the drawers, searching for something, anything, that would explain the murder. Nothing in them. Not a thing. She even pulled the stuck flour sifter bin forward to peer down into it, but there was nothing in that, either. Tearing apart and cleaning the Hoosier would have to wait for another day, when she had more time. She should at least go through the boxes of things she had successfully bid on, the cookbooks, vintage Pyrex, and sewing odds and ends.
Sewing. Buttons. She stood, staring down at the boxes, her mouth open as the conversation she had overheard came back to her. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Those two people at the auction were concerned about a valuable button. Could a button be valuable enough to risk breaking into her home to steal? That didn’t make a bit of sense, not when she had gotten the sewing stuff for fifteen bucks, but it was worth a try. She pulled the sewing box off the Hoosier and sat cross-legged on the floor with the back door open, warm spring air wafting the scent of fresh cut grass from a neighbor’s yard over her.
She pulled open the cardboard flaps and sorted through the box. There were cards of rickrack trim, lace, bobbins and spools of thread, the old wooden kind. There were a couple of old patterns, cards of metal snaps, a few random zippers and some plastic cases of sewing machine needles, along with an old tomato-shaped pincushion. But among it all was a large Mason jar full of buttons; she spilled the contents into a tea towel across her lap. The buttons were vintage, no doubt about that; a few looked like they might be Bakelite, some were most definitely mother-of-pearl, but nothing caught her eye as being particularly valuable. There wasn’t a single one she could even suspect of being diamond or some other jewel, and none that looked older than the turn of the last century.
But would she know a valuable button if she saw it? Sometimes, in the vintage and antique business, the ugliest old cast-iron toy or a dirty woodworking tool could be worth more than a pristine piece of Depression-era glass. An unschooled eye might never catch the worth of something in the esoteric world of antique junk.
Information was power, so she took the best ones and went to her computer, upstairs in the spare room—that was where Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen had been born—and Googled “valuable buttons.” She found out there actually was a national button society for collectors, and loads of useful information, but frankly, none of the buttons she had seemed of particular value. Even the so-called pearl buttons—mother-of-pearl, of course—were worth only a buck or two each. She shut down the computer and went back downstairs to rummage through the rest of the box of oddments to see if there were any political campaign buttons, which apparently could be even more valuable than sewing buttons, but came up empty-handed.
Stymied at last, she decided to stow the whole box of sewing items up in the craft room and move on to take care of the rest of the items. The cookbooks were easy; she carried the whole lot to her cookbook shelf in the kitchen, a small wire shelf that had once been a display unit in a store. There just wasn’t enough room, so she had to find a new way to stack them, and place a few more above on top of the cupboards. Sooner or later she was going to have to winnow the wheat from the chaff and get rid of some, but that would be after the Queen’s Tea, when she had more time to really look through them.
Rummaging through the box of vintage Pyrex and other cookware was pure joy. She carried the box into the kitchen and opened it up. Luckily, it had not been disturbed in the break-in, so the items were as they had been left two nights before. Jaymie had done a little research, as her appreciation for vintage cookware grew to obsession, and knew that the ingenious wife of a Corning Glass Works engineer, who asked her hubby to bring home a dish made of the heat-resistant glass the company was working on, was in a sense the mother of the casserole dishes, mixing bowls and refrigerator dishes that would become the ultimate in modern convenience. Recognizing a growing market, Corning Glass Works began manufacturing a line of mixing bowls and glass containers to store leftovers in the icebox.
The first refrigerator dishes, in primary colors to match the mixing bowl sets, had glass lids and came in a set of three sizes: a large one that many mistook for a casserole dish, a medium one that looked about the right size for a pound of butter, and two smaller ones. Jaymie already had a couple, but there was always room for more. She spread the goodies out on the trestle table and examined her treasure trove. There were a couple of the small red refrigerator dishes—only one had its lid, but the finish was in remarkably good condition, better than what she had—and one of the medium blue ones. She now only needed the largest yellow one and some glass lids to complete a set.
One could buy a complete set online, but a lot of the fun in collecting, for Jaymie, was in finding lonely pieces for next to nothing and creating a complete, valuable set. That was how she had built her Primary Colors Pyrex bowl collection, one piece at a time. She frowned as she examined her treasure. The lid of the red dish was unlike the one she already had, the grooves differently spaced. She’d have to research that later. Perhaps the company had varied the design over the years.
The rest of the box contents consisted of some canning utensils, knives, old mason jars, canning rings and one large, clear glass Pyrex mixing bowl, too modern to be interesting to Jaymie. She’d foist that off on someone else, probably Anna. She took the box back to the summer porch and sat on a stool to sort through the utensils, deciding which to keep and which to pass on. Hoppy—in the backyard, of course—started barking, and a male voice called out her name. Her heart started thudding erratically, but it was just Joel coming up the stone walk from the back lane.
“Geez, Joel,” she said, one hand over her heart, “you scared the bejeebers out of me!”
“Only you, of all the girls your age, would use the word bejeebers,” he said, smiling as he came up the two steps and sat down at the top. Hoppy had followed him and jumped into his jean-clad lap, gazing up at him adoringly. The breakup had almost been harder on Hoppy than Jaymie. The little dog loved Joel so much.
“I get it, I get it . . . I’m just an old-fashioned gal.” She said it with what she hoped was no rancor, while wondering what had made him show up on her doorstep. He hadn’t set foot on her property since he’d left on a cold, rainy December day.
“It’s a charming kind of anachronistic quirk, that’s all.”
As her heart slowed back down to normal, she finished what she was doing, then looked up to find him regarding her solemnly.
“What?”
“I never apologized or explained, did I?” he said.
He thought of that more than six months after walking out? Six months? She said, “Do you want coffee or tea? I was just about to make some Earl Grey, and then I have to get moving for the Queen’s Tea. It takes a while to climb into that hideous maid’s outfit.”
He nodded at her offer of tea; it was one of his charms, that he would drink tea, unlike most guys she knew who wrinkled their
noses in disgust. “Y’know, I didn’t think you were being snarky yesterday,” he said, “when you made that comment to Heidi about princesses and servants.”
“You didn’t?” She got up and went in to put the kettle on.
“No,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear him. “Maybe other people don’t know you as well as I do, but I know it was just you putting your foot in your mouth. I explained it to Heidi, too. She didn’t get it at first. I don’t think she even realized it could have been construed as an insult.”
Jaymie poked her head back out and glared at Joel, who had stretched his legs out along the top step of the summer porch stairs. “Thanks so much for explaining to your new girlfriend that I insulted her but didn’t mean to.”
“She was bound to hear about it from someone,” he said, equably. “Better I explain it to her properly than let someone else, who would put an unkind spin on it.”
“Explain it to her? You are such a pompous jerk sometimes,” Jaymie said, eyeing him with surprise. “How did I never see that before?”
He smiled, the dimple in the corner of his mouth winking at her. “Smitten by my many charms?” He scruffed Hoppy under the chin and the little dog trembled with joy and whined.
“That must be it,” she rejoined, her tone dry. It was impossible to insult Joel Anderson, a trait she shared with him, as her feelings weren’t easily hurt either. Except by being dumped with no notice given. She went back as the kettle boiled and poured water over the Earl Grey tea leaves in her favorite Brown Betty teapot. Her hand was only shaking a little, and the urge to throw an ice pick at him had lessened with her realization that he was now inflicting his “wisdom” on Heidi, poor girl. What had she done to deserve that? Jaymie made up two cups and carried them out to the garden, slipping past Joel, down to the flagstone path. “I’ve made you some; you can drink it or not, as you like. I don’t know how you feel about Earl Grey. It seems to be a ‘love it’ or ‘hate it’ proposition.”
He sat down in the other Adirondack and accepted the cup. “I didn’t come here to argue. I came to thank you.”
“To thank me? For what?” Jaymie looked away; looking directly at him still hurt. Why, even now, when she didn’t think she would take him back if he wanted her, did it hurt? Maybe it was because she didn’t give herself away easily. She had committed body and soul to their relationship, but he up and left so quickly, and she still didn’t really know why. One day they were making love on a rainy Sunday afternoon, laughing and sharing intimate jokes, and literally the next day he was gone, to his new love.
How could anyone turn his emotions on and off that quickly? It still didn’t make sense to her, how he could make love to her and then leave the very next day. She read romance novels; she should have been prepared, she supposed. But she had thought Joel was the hero of her tale, not the heartless villain. She wanted to ask him why, and it seemed he wanted to explain, but something held her back; she didn’t think she could handle the truth, which she suspected was that he just didn’t love her like she loved him.
He frowned down into his cup. “I saw your face yesterday afternoon, when you made the decision to be kind to Heidi. I know you, Jaymsie,” he said, using his pet name for her, as he looked over to gaze steadily into her eyes. “I know it took a lot. You feel things deeply, and I should have known better than to leave you like I did, without giving you a chance to yell at me, or . . . or something.”
She breathed deeply, and said, “The or something being throwing an iron skillet at your head?” It was those moments, when he was being sincere, that he was most attractive, but she deflected lingering warm feelings with a dose of black humor.
Denver wandered out the open back door and down the lawn toward them, picking daintily through the rapidly growing grass. But unlike Hoppy, who was basking in the glow of Joel-love, the tabby took a sentinel position near Jaymie’s leg and glared a hole through Joel’s forehead in his determined cat manner. You are dead to me, since you hurt Jaymie, his penetrating green eyes seemed to say.
Joel hadn’t answered her sarcastic response; he just continued to massage the scarring where little Hoppy had lost a leg as a pup, before Jaymie had adopted him. She considered his words, sipping the fragrant brew, which she drank from a chipped china cup that she couldn’t bear to dispose of, since it was her grandma’s favorite. Did she feel things more deeply than others? She didn’t think so. Joel’s behavior would have been hurtful no matter who she was. She glanced at him as a thought occurred to her. Was he . . . no, it wasn’t possible. Was he enjoying the notion that he had the ability to hurt her so deeply?
The idea, once conceived, would not vanish. If it was true, it meant he really was a selfish jerk. Was it true? She mined all her intimate knowledge of Joel, and found nothing to contradict the idea. He did like the sound of his own voice and could be astonishingly self-involved, blind to the effect of his actions on others unless it somehow boosted his ego.
What the heck was it she had loved about the guy? That notion was the dash of icy water she needed to cool her warming feelings toward him.
Joel, perhaps sensing the unflattering direction of her thoughts, scuffed his feet in the grass, shifted uneasily, and said, “I see you’ve got that Hoosier cabinet you bought at the auction on the summer porch. You feeling okay after that guy was found dead?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m just peachy,” Jaymie said. Her new grinder covered in blood. She closed her eyes, willing herself to forget the image.
“Sorry,” Joel said, reaching out and touching her arm. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. Funny how those other two guys got in a fistfight over the Hoosier, though, at the auction.”
Jaymie’s curiosity was piqued, and she asked, “What did you see?”
“Well, first there was a scuffle, but that ended quickly. The two guys separated. I only got involved because one guy was yelling obscenities at Les Mackenzie. Really disrespectful. I poked one in the nose, when he pushed Heidi. Then before I knew it, two guys were hollering at each other and trading blows.”
“What did they look like?”
He shrugged. “You know me; I have lousy recall.”
“Oh, come on, Joel. You poked one in the nose and you can’t remember what he looks like?”
“Not too old, not too young, fairly well dressed. They broke it up and left, as far as I know. There was nothing outstanding about either of the guys, except the one I poked would have had a bloody nose!”
Jaymie pondered that for a moment, considering if it was possible that the fighting guys at the auction had something to do with the break-in. What were the chances? Probably slim. Some guys could fight over anything, and auctions brought out the competitive spirit in dealers and collectors. It wasn’t the first time a fistfight had broken out at an auction. “Did Heidi get a look at the guys fighting?”
“I don’t know. She might have. She’s more observant than I am.”
“Everyone seems to be more observant than you,” Jaymie responded.
“Well, one of them did shove her, the one I poked in the nose. I don’t know if he meant to push her, or if he was just trying to get at the other guy. I’ll ask her, if I think of it.” He gently set Hoppy down on the grass, put his cooling tea on the table between the chairs and stood, shaking dog fur off his jeans. “So, for future reference? Earl Grey, not for me. I’ve gotta go, and I know you’re busy for the rest of the day. I’ve got to leave on business today and . . . look . . .” He hesitated for a moment and stared down at Jaymie. “Can I ask you a big favor? Will you keep an eye on Heidi for me? She’s such an innocent, and she doesn’t really have any friends in Queensville. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of her, you know?”
Jaymie was dumbfounded; he wanted his ex-girlfriend to look after the current model, who was too young and innocent to fend for herself? In usual Joel fashion, he took her silen
ce for acquiescence, leaned down to pet Denver, who hissed at him and turned his back, and then left with a quick wave, strolling down the stone pathway toward the back alley.
After he was out of sight, Jaymie shook her head. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”
But she didn’t have time to marvel, because as Joel drove away, a dark sedan pulled down her back lane, and from it emerged Detective Christian. She watched him enter her gate, carefully pull it closed behind him and stroll up the walk. How did he manage to look like a hero from a romance novel even with dark circles under his eyes and a grim set to his mouth?
And what could he possibly want?
Ten
“MS. LEIGHTON,” HE said, as a greeting. “I’d like to have another look at your summer porch, if you don’t mind.”
Hoppy barked and danced around him in a wobbly pattern, while Denver hissed and slunk under the holly bushes.
“Sure, Detective,” Jaymie said, and led the way.
He hunched down in her summer porch, the floor creaking as he moved. She watched for a moment as he eyed the piece from different angles, then said, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and wondering not only who the guy is—”
“We know who he is now. Kind of.”
“Really?”
He looked up at her. “Lyle Stubbs came into the station and said that you left him a note to tell us about his missing guest, Lachlan McIntosh. Turns out his missing guest and the victim are one and the same. How did you know that?”
She felt a little thrill of nerves rush down her back, and she sat down on the top step of the summer porch. “I didn’t, but Dee Stubbs—Lyle’s sister-in-law and a friend of ours—mentioned at the tea yesterday that Lyle was supposed to go through his guest list and then talk to you, so when she mentioned that there was one guy missing, it made sense. If she’d said the same thing to anyone else they would have got it, too.”
A Deadly Grind Page 13